


Tumblr Ficlets

by dr_girlfriend



Category: Cabin Pressure, James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Bondlock, Gen, M/M, summer christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1335982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/pseuds/dr_girlfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets originally posted on Tumblr, for multiple pairings.  Ratings range from G to E.  All fics have specific ships, rating, and any warnings in the initial chapter notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Other One

**Author's Note:**

> I write fanfiction for fandom spaces. Please do not add my fics to Goodreads or other indexing sites, excerpt them for press, or in other ways share them outside of fandom spaces. Thanks!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BBC Sherlock fandom. No ships. Rated G. 
> 
> Ficlet inspired by Mycroft's line in His Last Vow: "I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one."

Sir Edwin stood at parade rest, his eyes on the stark figure of Mycroft Holmes silhouetted against the pale winter sky.  The man was gazing out the window at a scrubby patch of garden below, his voice and countenance pensive.

"As my colleague is fond of remarking," Holmes mused, "This country sometimes needs a blunt instrument.  Equally, it sometimes needs a dagger — a scalpel wielded with precision and without remorse."

Holmes twisted, gazing through the glass wall at the conference in progress.  “There will always come a time when we need Sherlock Holmes.”

"If this is some expression of familial sentiment," Sir Edwin began, his voice raising in question on that last word, so foreign to everything he thought he knew about this man.

Mycroft sighed audibly.  “Don’t be absurd.”  He pivoted sharply, his cold gaze locked on Sir Edwin.  “I am not given to outbursts of _brotherly compassion.”_

That forbidding gaze dropped for just a moment before Mycroft raised his eyebrows in mocking inquiry.  “You know what happened to the other one.”

Sir Edwin fought to keep the grimace off his face, turning back to the window.  He had thought it a rumor, carefully cultivated by the enigmatic elder Holmes to strike fear in the hearts of those who might betray him, but if it were actually true…

Another brother, young and brilliant, separated from his siblings by both age and inclination.  A mind capable of perceiving patterns in the chaos — mathematical genius exceeding even that of his mother — isolation pulling that genius inexorably toward the intricacies of computer code and networks.  And then underneath it all, the hubris of a Holmes — small violations turning to blatant transgressions until no power, foreign or domestic, was safe from the meddling of a single insolent child.

There one day, gone the next.  Killed, exiled, imprisoned — no one knew for certain except the man who stood in front of Sir Edwin now.

Sir Edwin had heard one particularly compelling story, that the child had been subsumed into the great system of British government, his talent turned to defending the security of the nation rather than eroding it, his name replaced with a single letter.  “Some horses run better in a harness,” the gossip had said with a significant lift of his eyebrow, and Sir Edwin had snorted at the implication.  Sir Edwin’s clearance was the highest in the land.  If another Holmes were within the British government, he of all people would know about it.  

Wouldn’t he?


	2. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BBC Sherlock fandom. Sherlock Holmes/ John Watson. Rated T.
> 
> An AU "How They Met" ficlet inspired by the prompt : “Accidentally taking each other's bags.”

“There is a _human hand_ in your suitcase.”

Sherlock had been just bored enough to answer the phone call from an unknown number; now he sat up abruptly, the intolerable ennui falling from him like a cloak.

“Interesting,” he hummed into his mobile.

“Are you trying to pretend it doesn’t belong to you?”  The voice on the other end of the line was pugnacious — stubborn insistence clear under the calm tone.

Sherlock stood up, striding into his bedroom, mobile clamped between his shoulder and jaw as he threw open the door.  

“Not at all,” he said.  “It absolutely belongs to me.  That is not the interesting part.”

He circled the suitcase on his bed, truly observing it for the first time.  Damn Mycroft, insisting on meeting him at the airport and bothering him with his tedious need to “debrief.”  Sherlock hadn’t even looked at the last suitcase left on the luggage return belt before gesturing Mycroft’s chauffeur towards it impatiently.

The man on the other end huffed a reluctant laugh, warm and soft in Sherlock’s ear.  “The human hand in your luggage is _not_ the interesting part?” the man repeated skeptically.  “Care to tell me what _is?_ ”

“ _You_ are,” Sherlock purred into his mobile, eyes still examining the suitcase.  Similar to his in surface appearance — Sherlock was well aware of the benefits of blending into the crowd on occasion — but a much cheaper brand.  Old, perhaps even a hand-me-down, but not that worn.  He fondled the coolness of the zipper pull for a moment, prolonging the anticipation.

“ _I_ am?”  There was something angrier in the man’s voice now.  All the more intriguing — he found being called ‘interesting’ to be irritating, not flattering as most people would.  “I’m just an ordinary bloke who is going to have to do without his toothbrush tonight.  You’re the one with body parts in your checked luggage.  How did you get that through security, anyway?”

Sherlock snorted.  “Boring.  I have a letter, if needed, that documents that I am carrying medical models.  Not that anyone ever asks for it.”

“Bollocks.  That is not a medical model.  That is a human hand, preserved in formaldehyde, quite possibly removed while the victim was still living.”

“Oh!”  This was _wonderful!_  “How did you know that the hand was not removed postmortem?”

“There is faint bruising evident on the skin at the base of the palm where the assailant held the wrist down, and the jagged edge — hang on, what the hell does it _matter?_ Whose hand is it, and why do you have it?”

“You’re a doctor!” Sherlock crowed triumphantly.  He pulled the zipper of the suitcase open with a flourish.  

Brief silence greeted him.  “How in the bloody hell did you know that?”

“Obvious.  You’re familiar both with body parts and medical models, as well as traumatic injury.  A funeral director would have been more vocal about the improper means of transport of human remains than the fact that I have them.  You could be a forensic scientist, but…”

“Fine, fine.  Jesus.  Yes, I’m a doctor. Now — ”

Sherlock eyed the meticulously-packed contents of the bag.  “A _military_ doctor, from the way you’ve packed your luggage.  Recently returned from approximately ten years of service based on the style of your clothing.  Invalided out — your right leg, based on the uneven wear of your suitcase wheels.  But you pull the suitcase with your right hand and you are left-handed based on the pattern of wear and ink smudges on your cuffs.  Some might adopt that habit so that they are free to text with their dominant hand, but you’ve been out of the country long enough that you prefer to call, not text, as evidenced by your call to me, and so you have an additional injury to your left upper body — shoulder or arm, not enough to incapacitate your left hand for handwriting, but enough to cause you discomfort in dragging the suitcase along. You took a short trip to visit someone, and you took a gift by the size of the space left in your suitcase.  Perfume, it’s left a lingering scent behind — J’adore by Dior, but not for a girlfriend, not with those horrendous jumpers you also packed for the trip.  A traditional fragrance but not motherly, perhaps an older sister.”

“That’s —”

Sherlock frowned.  He had been having fun.  He shouldn’t have let himself get carried away.  This would be over now and the boredom would suck him under again.

“— _brilliant_.”

Sherlock bit down hard on his planned response, blinking.  “What?” he said stupidly.

“ _Absolutely_ brilliant.  I mean, just phenomenal.   _Extraordinary.”_

“Obvious,” Sherlock countered uncertainly.

“No.”  The man’s voice brooked no argument.  “Just truly amazing.”

Sherlock sat down on the bed with a heavy thump.  “That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

The man laughed — a true, delighted laugh, and Sherlock found himself joining in.   _Remarkable._

“Christ,” the man said.  “I don’t even know how you did that, but…and you never told me what the hell was so interesting, anyway. You didn’t know all that about me already, did you?  It sounded like you were just figuring it out on the spot.”

Sherlock lay back on the bed, speaking to the ceiling.  “What is so _interesting_ is that you are a man who found a human hand in a suitcase, determined that it was removed forcibly from a living victim, and yet instead of calling the police or even the airline, you called _me,_ the owner of said suitcase.  That’s quite reckless of you, isn’t it Doctor — “ he checked the name on the luggage tag “— Watson?”

“John,” the man said absently.  He cleared his throat awkwardly.  “Yes, when you put it that way, I suppose it _was_ rather a dangerous thing to do.”

“So why did you do it?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.  The man’s behavior was so deliciously _unpredictable_.

The man — _John_ , Sherlock corrected himself mentally — huffed a soft laugh again.  “Honestly?  I suppose it’s because…I’ve been back in London for five weeks now, and this is the first time I haven’t been bored out of my skull.”

Sherlock smiled.  “There’s a restaurant named Angelo’s, opposite twenty-two Northumberland Street.  The owner owes me a favor.  Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” John said.

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m a killer?”

“Would you tell me if you were?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Probably.  But I can assure you that I’m not, if that will allow you to enjoy your gnocchi fully.”

John laughed again.  God, it was intoxicating.  “How on _earth_ could you possibly know that I like gnocchi?”

“ _Everyone_ likes gnocchi.  Eight o’clock?”

John was silent for a long moment.   _Say yes_ , Sherlock found himself thinking.   _Please_.

“I’ll be there.  I shouldn’t, but I will be.”

Sherlock leapt to his feet, shedding his dressing gown.  “No matter what happens, Doctor Watson, I can promise you one thing — it won’t be boring.  Now doesn’t that sound appealing?”

“Oh, _god_ yes.”


	3. The Charade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Bond / Skyfall fandom. James Bond / Q, (Unresolved Sexual Tension). Rated T. 
> 
> This was the ficlet that resulted from my prompt request, with the prompt "Fake Married Trope." Sorry it turned out a bit more angsty than fluffy!

“...and then the mayor stood up in the town square and said, ‘Don’t be alarmed citizens.  It’s just Bach — decomposing!”

Everyone around the table laughed at the atrocious joke, to an extent directly proportional to the amount of wine they had imbibed.  It was the tail end of a long and amiable dinner, and everyone was a little loose, replete from the truly excellent meal and wine chosen from their host’s expansive cellars.

“Mark!  You tell that joke every time,” Angela said, swiping affectionately and somewhat drunkenly at her husband’s shoulder.  

“It’s funny every time!” Mark protested weakly.  A nice man, on the whole.  Just a pencil-pusher really, an accountant who happened to be creative and amoral enough to be the lynchpin of a money laundering operation that used digital crypto currencies to keep a particularly nefarious Vietnamese crime consortium in business.  

“Every time,” the husband of the other couple affirmed congenially.  What was his name again?  Something with a P.  Peter?  Paul?

“See, Pat’s got my back,” Mark said.  Ah, that’s right.  Patrick and...Lakshmi.  A nice couple as well.  Boring, but nice.  He was a stereotypical self-absorbed City type, finance or mergers or something like that, but she seemed a little sharper.  She did something with children...pediatric oncologist, was it?  Even bright with wine her eyes seemed to dwell on James and Q with an unsettling degree of insight, and Bond sat back, resting his left arm carelessly over the back of Q’s chair.  

He leaned in, his nose just nuzzling into the sweep of hair behind Q’s ear.   “More wine, darling?” he murmured, smiling as Q seemed to shiver a little.

“That would be lovely, James,” Q answered back, reaching up to give Bond’s left hand a squeeze as Bond poured.  

Bond stifled his reaction before his smile could turn into a grin.  When he had first received the mission brief he had been utterly incredulous.  The very idea that the stiff, prim Quartermaster would be able to pull off an undercover mission — posing as Bond’s _husband_ , no less.  

It was ridiculous.  And yet Q was playing the part remarkably well.  All the thinly-veiled hostility and barbed words that typically surrounded him like a porcupine’s quills had disappeared, leaving this unexpectedly unguarded and pliable young man behind, now leaning into Bond’s body heat, his cheeks gently flushed from the wine.  

Bond let his fingertips brush up Q’s shoulder.  Pretending to be engrossed in the conversation, he skimmed his palm over the nape of Q’s neck, a long warm sweep up the velvety skin until he could delve his fingers into the soft tumble of hair at the back of Q’s head.  After all the time Bond had spent under the chill of Q’s dismissive gaze and the lash of his sharp tongue he was taking great pleasure in getting a little of his own back, being as handsy with his formerly-staid Quartermaster as the mission parameters could reasonably allow.  

Q’s eyes flicked in Bond’s direction, the mossy green depths unreadable in the flickering candlelight.  The absence of the usual barrier of thick-rimmed frames had the effect of making Q look unusually wide-eyed and vulnerable, intensifying for Bond the somewhat surreal experience of having his Quartermaster nestled soft and languorous against the curve of his body.

“Brandy, James?”  Mark asked.

“That would be lovely.  And, if it’s not too presumptuous, I’m eager to see this library I’ve heard so much about.”  Now that they were all a little fuzzy with alcohol, Bond just had to get them out of sight of the entry to the home office for long enough for Q to work his magic on Mark’s router. 

“Excellent idea!  We’ll take brandy in the library,” Mark said amicably, handing out snifters before snagging the bottle and leading the way.

They all trooped down the corridor.  Bond used the opportunity to wind an arm around Q’s slender waist as they walked, smothering another smile as the man stiffened instinctively for  a moment before remembering his role and leaning into Bond in return.

The fire was already flickering warmly in the library as they all settled comfortably onto club chairs and sofas, Bond pulling Q with him to curl up on one side of a leather chaise as they broke into more intimate conversational groups.

Lakshmi sat at the other end of the chaise, her attention turning again to Bond and Q.  Her hazel eyes were keen and perceptive in a way that reminded Bond almost uncomfortably of how M used to look at him — as if weighing his value and finding him just barely worthy — but her voice when she spoke was warm.

“So, tell me.  How did you two meet?”

Bond jumped in before Q could respond, still somewhat dubious of Q’s ability to lie fluently.  “We met at the National Gallery,” Bond said easily, twining his fingers with Q’s, feeling Q’s hand twitch as Bond drew a slow, lazy circle in the center of Q’s palm with his thumb.  “Quentin sat beside me and commented on the painting I was looking at.”  He let his voice grow soft, confidential.  “I knew from that moment...there would never be anyone else for me.”

“How sweet,” Lakshmi cooed.  

Bond looked at Q with a smirk, expecting him to share his amusement.  Instead, Bond’s pulse suddenly sped, ice seeming to bloom in his chest at the look on Q’s face.  Q looked... _stricken_.  Bewildered, almost _wounded_ , the grey-green eyes sheened in the firelight, limpid and vulnerable.  Bond’s hand tightened instinctively on Q’s and Q blinked, the expression falling off his face instantly.  He looked completely composed now, and Bond would have thought that he had imagined it if not for the lingering thrum of his pulse and the prickling up his spine.  Bond could read people, and he knew better than to doubt his intincts.   _What the hell had just happened?_

Q cleared his throat.  “He was a charmer even then,” he said, just the slightest roughness to his voice as he leaned forward and took a hearty sip of his brandy.  “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, nodding to Lakshmi, extricating himself gracefully from Bond’s grip and moving toward the door.

Bond watched the slender back disappear through the doorway, suddenly uncertain.

“You haven’t been married long,” Lakshmi said.    

“Pardon?”  Bond focused back on her, resettling the easy smile on his face with an effort, trying to shove his uneasiness to the back of his mind.

“You’re hard to read, but he’s not.”  She smiled into her brandy, her deep brown eyes regarding Bond warmly.  “His heart’s in his eyes every time he looks at you.”

“That’s — “ Bond felt his stomach churn sickeningly.  “That’s — flattering to hear.”

He drained his glass quickly, letting the fine liquor burn down his throat, trying to settle his nerves.  “So...do you enjoy the symphony as well?”

* * *

The Aston Martin’s engine purred as Bond guided the car down the long drive.

“Infiltration malware is installed,” Q said crisply into his mobile.  “Initiate archive searches now, start tracing the accounts.  With any luck, the financials will lead us to Vuu Quang Dat.  I’m on my way in to HQ, be prepared to update me when when I arrive.  ETA twenty minutes.”

Q ended the call and slid his mobile into his jacket pocket, but remained facing the window, streetlights alternately casting the austere lines of his face in light and shadow.  Bond saw the adam’s apple bob in that slender, vulnerable stretch of throat, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“Q,” he began, before the words stopped up his throat. _What in the hell had he planned to say anyway?_

Q’s body twitched, the slightest hunch to his shoulders now as if he were fighting the urge to curl in around himself protectively.  “It — it doesn’t have to change anything, you know,” he finally said softly.  “It was a momentary lapse.   We can both erase this abominable evening from our memories and you can just...go back to not knowing.”  

Bond rolled his shoulders as lines of tension crawled up his neck.  “It doesn’t work that way, Q.”

“What do you suggest then, 007?”  Q’s voice could cut glass.  “A _pity fuck?”_  He glanced at Bond, his eyes shockingly vivid even in the dim and changeable light, and whatever he saw in Bond’s expression seemed to unnerve him.  He looked out the window once more, shaking his head and then huffing out a soft sigh.  His voice became hushed again, the anger passing as quickly as it had flared.  “Just leave it be, Bond.   _Please.”_

“How — “   _How can I leave it be?  How can you possibly feel that for me?  How did I not see it before now?_

“How long?” Bond found himself saying.

“Does it matter?” Q answered, sharp and immediate.  Bond returned his stare, implacable, until Q’s eyes dropped.  

Q’s slender fingers began fidgeting with the crease of his trousers over his knee, smoothing the fabric and then plucking at it again, his eyes intent on the useless task.  “Since the beginning.”  

 _Christ._  Bond’s reeling mind replayed through the events of the last year since he had first met Q in that gallery.  Every sharp word Q spoke into his earpiece, his voice crackling with intensity — focusing Bond during his missions, saving his skin again and again despite — or perhaps because of — the cutting, sarcastic tones.  Every gadget pushed at Bond with stern admonishments against carelessness, Q’s eyes smudged dark underneath with exhaustion.  Everything that had irked Bond about the young Quartermaster — that Bond had interpreted as hostility and condescension and dismissal.  Now it felt as if the ground was shifting under Bond’s feet, a seismic shift as the world tilted and then resettled into an entirely new landscape.  Bond replayed those events through the filter of his newfound knowledge and saw them for what they really were.  Ever-vigilant caretaking, fierce concern, and technological tokens of affection — all wrapped in a prickly, self-protective facade, and Bond hadn’t noticed in the slightest.

“I am —”  Q swallowed audibly, interrupting the mad tumble of Bond’s thoughts.  “I am, first and foremost, your Quartermaster, Bond.  Nothing need change about that.  This will — “  His hand fluttered expressively.  “ — resolve.”

“Will it?”  Bond didn’t know if he was speaking to Q or to himself.  

Q twitched his shoulder, the ghost of a shrug, and turned to the window again, leaning his forehead against the cool glass tiredly.

Bond drove the rest of the way in heavy silence.  Only as they passed the security checkpoint and entered the carpark at HQ did Q seem to rouse, straightening up and fiddling with his cuffs.

“If our investigations bear fruit I expect you’ll be off to Da Lat in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.  Best get some rest, 007.  I’ll get started on your kit.”

“Thank you, Q,” Bond said, sincere for once, and Q flinched, the skin around his eyes tightening and his mouth pressing into an unhappy line.   _Bugger._

The car was still rolling to a stop as Q opened the passenger door.  Bond hurriedly threw the gear into park.  Q turned, one foot on the ground outside the car, and without forethought Bond found his hand flashing out, grasping Q’s wrist.

Q’s arm tensed as if to pull away for a moment, but then he paused, settling back into his seat, his gaze lifting to Bond’s.

Bond could only look back for painfully long seconds, paralyzed in a welter of confusion and uncertainty.  He felt a flush rise up his neck as Q’s eyebrows lifted in inquiry.

“I — “ Bond began, ending in a frustrated growl as it became apparent that the words to fix this would not magically appear.

Bond squeezed his eyes shut hard, and then opened them again.  His grip on Q’s wrist slackened, the shackle of his hand softening, gentling.  Bond felt the slow pull of inevitability welling up inside him as he let his fingers trail down until  Q’s hand was held loosely in his own.  He circled his thumb, deep and slow in the palm of Q’s hand — an echo of the gesture made earlier that night as a taunt, now nothing at all like a taunt.  An affirmation.  Perhaps — just perhaps — even the unformed beginning of a promise.

Q’s expression softened, and Bond read the progression of emotion in those vivid grey-green eyes.  Wariness, affection, and just the barest flicker of hope.  Q gave Bond’s hand a squeeze and opened the door again, sliding fluidly from the car.

He closed the door behind himself softly and unhesitatingly, leaving Bond to his confusion as Q walked straight-backed to the lift, returning to work.


	4. Melancholia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BBC Sherlock fandom. Sherlock Holmes & John Watson or Sherlock Holmes / John Watson, depending on how you ship them. Rated T. Warning for depression.
> 
> I was browsing the bbc sherlock tag in Tumblr, which I actually have never done before, and ran across this post from a stranger:  
>  _Today is one of those days where I really need a hug from someone special and those antidepressants that I haven’t got._  
>  _I’m just sort of done. Down and done._ _Can someone just write me a little thing? Just a little drabble fic thing with a depressed Sherlock and a comforting John? It would mean so much to me right now. It really would._
> 
> So, this is just a tiny little ficlet, for oswincumberbatch.

When the black mood took him it was all-consuming. His incandescent, hyperactive thoughts dimmed to a low hum and then flickered, the magnificent whirring clockwork of his brain gummed and slowed by the thick and oily depression.  
  
He had no idea how long he had been lying on the sofa, in the same position, bleak thoughts slouching and stumbling through his numbed grey matter.  
  
_Insufferable. Arrogant. **Freak.**_  
  
He barely felt it at first, the warm dry palm on his forehead.  
  
"Sherlock?" That voice — _John’s_ voice — resonated somewhere deep in Sherlock’s chest, loosening the knot of despair that had tightened there.  
  
"C’mon, love." Warm hands were lifting, strong and steady, easing Sherlock upright, rubbing down stretched tendons and muscles sore and weak from hours of inactivity.  
  
Sherlock felt a sudden warmth in his hand, his cold fingers tightening reflexively around the cup John had pushed into them.  
  
He raised the cup to his face, breathing in the warm steam and the smell of Earl Grey. He took a sip, not realizing how dry his throat had been until the trickle of warmth soothed it, spice and honey spreading across his tongue.  
  
John leaned back, settling Sherlock’s head into the lee of his shoulder. He took Sherlock’s other hand and held it, his grasp warm and firm, steady and strong, an anchor against the howling chaos.  
  
Sherlock pressed back, leaning into the scent of John’s skin, and sighed.


	5. Stormy Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Bond / Skyfall fandom. James Bond / Q. Rated T. A quick cheer-up fic for fightyourdragons, who requested 00Q and a thunderstorm. :-D

The mission had been a success, the information extracted almost effortlessly, and so Q had no earthly idea why Bond seemed so unbelievably _put out._   He tried to match Bond’s punishing pace as they strode through the streets of Montreal, but found himself lagging a few steps behind despite his best efforts.  It brought to mind memories of being the youngest brother, tagging along to school behind his impatient and ill-tempered siblings, and he didn’t like it one bit.

The humid, oppressive air seemed to heighten the thick tension between them, the storm clouds gathering in the west no match for Bond’s glowering expression.  At the next street crossing Bond turned once again to check on Q’s progress with an aggrieved expression, and Q finally snapped.

"Do go on without me, 007, if I am such an albatross around your neck.  I can find my own way back to the hotel."

A muscle twitched in Bond’s jaw.  “We need to get back and report.  And it’s going to rain.”

Q crossed his arms mutinously.  “Feel free to call in without me.  And I apologize for not having the foresight to requisition you _an exploding umbrella_ , but I did at least waterproof all your equipment, so you can rest assured that a little rain will not melt the flash drive if you’re concerned about the data.”

"I’m not concerned about the _damned data_ ,” Bond rasped irritably.  “And on that subject, don’t you think we’ve deviated from the plan enough for one mission?”

Q ignored the ominous rumble of thunder as he stared back at Bond.  “What on _earth_ are you talking about?”

Bond paced impatiently back to Q, grasping the sleeve of his jacket and pulling him into motion again.  He kept one hand tight on Q’s jacket as they walked, even as his eyes refused to meet Q’s puzzled expression. 

"I’m _talking_ about _you_ making contact with the mark.  We only had to get close enough for you to hack his mobile, he wasn’t supposed to notice you.  He wasn’t supposed to try to _pull_ you right in front of me!”  Another crack of thunder, much closer now, punctuated Bond’s angry words.

"What?"  Q stopped again, almost stumbling over his own feet as rain started to patter down around them.  "He wasn’t trying to _pull_ me, it was a simple conversation.  Anyway, I could hardly ignore the man, could I?”

"Fucking _hell_ ,” Bond spat.  “You can’t _possibly_ be that oblivious.  Of _course_ he was trying to pull you.  And his lover — who, may I remind you, is almost as highly placed in the crime syndicate as the mark — was looking at you like he would like to flay you alive.”

"I —" The rain was coming down in earnest now, and Q struggled to focus through his streaked and foggy glasses.  "Honestly?"

Bond’s laugh was bitter as he wiped his jacket sleeve across his eyes, swiping the rain-soaked fringe back from his forehead.  “Of _course_ you didn’t notice.  You’re always in your own world, with your tech and your predictive models.  No human stands a chance, do they?  You don’t even realize what you do to m— to people.”

It was true, Q had to admit, always had been.  He tended to focus his attention inward, the lure of technology and puzzles and complex mathematics more intriguing most times than the people around him.  That didn’t mean that he _remained_ oblivious, however, when his attention was engaged.  And he was looking at Bond now, his quicksilver mind cataloguing every nuance of Bond’s reaction.  There was no reason for Bond to be so upset, either about the mark flirting with Q or about Q potentially being in danger, unless —

Another thing Q knew about himself was that he made decisions quickly and wholeheartedly.  He felt the smile spread across his rain-soaked face as he reached out, sliding his palm inside the edge of Bond’s jacket to rest against his side.  The now-translucent fabric of Bond’s white shirt was still warm from the heat of his body and yet Bond still shivered as Q ran the hand up over his ribs in a firm caress.  “What I do to… _people?”_ Q repeated. “No one in particular?”

"Dammit," Bond growled, even as he took a step closer, his arm winding around Q’s back to draw him in.  "You’re a menace.  I knew — I just _knew_ that if you ever found out I’d be in trouble.”

The heavens had opened fully, the steady rain now a downpour, and the street was deserted aside from the two of them.  Q had both hands burrowed underneath Bond’s jacket now, pulling his shirttails free to slide underneath and spread out across the skin of his back.  He ignored Bond’s huff of breath at the coldness of his hands, nuzzling a trickle of rain from the sharp edge of Bond’s jaw.  “So you decided to act like an arse to throw me off the scent.  Diabolical,” he teased, as another wave of rain crashed down on them, thunder rumbling the pavement below their feet.

"You."  Bond shook his head before ducking down to capture Q’s mouth.  The kiss was warm and soft and lingering, luxurious and unhurried despite the deluge that surrounded them.  "You are a force of nature, Q."

Q just laughed, lifting his face to the sky, and kissed Bond again.


	6. Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BBC Sherlock fandom. Sherlock Holmes & John Watson. Rated T.
> 
> I just read the amazing Sterek fanfic "Stand Fast in Your Enchantments" by DevilDoll, and was bitten by the rabid plotbunny of Werewolf!Sherlock and Mage/Healer!John with magical tattoos. So here it is. :-D

Every bone in John’s body ached, a dull throbbing pain in contrast to the sharp flare of anguish every time he put weight on his ankle.  He found himself leaning even more heavily into the warmth and strength of Sherlock’s body as they stumped awkwardly up the seventeen steps to their flat.  By the end Sherlock was half-carrying John, his arm around John’s shoulders as John clung to him with an arm around his waist because the man was so stupidly tall.  Not that Sherlock seemed to mind.  John’s weight seemed effortless to him; he didn’t even seem tired as John collapsed onto the sofa with a relieved sigh, hissing in pain as he elevated his ankle to the armrest.

John closed his eyes, trying to stifle a pathetic groan.  “I think there’s some peas in the freezer, could you fetch me a bag?” he asked.

Silence greeted him, and he clenched his teeth in frustration.  It would be just like Sherlock to bugger off to his room and not be seen for days, just when John was incapacitated.  The man moved so silently, he was probably already gone.

John opened his eyes and turned his head, unable to suppress a full-body startle that sent another spike of pain through his ankle.  Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the coffee table just a few hands-breadths’ away, his mercurial silver eyes staring intently at John.

“What?” John asked, somewhat defensively.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  “We’re home now,” he said.  “We’re alone.  Why don’t you just —”  He wiggled his fingers at John’s ankle in a sort of _abracadabra!_ motion that would have had John snickering if it wasn’t for the curl of cold fear in his chest.

Slowly, deliberately, John lowered his ankle and pulled himself to sitting, hands clenched white-knuckled on the edge of the sofa.  “What does _that_ mean?”

Sherlock huffed in frustration.  “Don’t be tedious, John.  We’ve been flatmates for three weeks now.  Did you honestly think that I didn’t know what you were? I knew within the first three minutes.”

John’s mouth was suddenly dry and he swallowed nervously, absentmindedly tugging down on the cuff of his shirtsleeve.  “I don’t —”

The words stopped up in his throat as Sherlock’s large warm hand shot out, grasping his wrist.  “You don’t have to hide these either.”  His thumb skimmed down, brushing the exposed skin at John’s wrist where just the tiniest sliver of inked skin was revealed.  “I’ve already deduced approximately seventy to eighty percent of them so far.  An _ongk phra_ here.”  Sherlock’s palm slid up, wrapping around John’s left forearm.  Sherlock was always unbelievably warm but now his palm seemed to burn through John’s shirt, heat radiating through John’s suddenly chilled skin.  “A raven here.  Should I go on?”

“No.”  John shivered, feeling naked, exposed under that silver gaze.  “Are you — your deductions, is it — telepathy?  Precognition?”

For a moment the tension in John’s chest eased as Sherlock looked almost comically put-out, his nose wrinkling in disdain.  “Don’t be ridiculous, John, that would be _cheating_.  My deductions are based in rational thought and scientific method.”

John’s thoughts felt slow and stumbling.  “Oh.  I just thought…”

"I am not _that_ kind of Other,” Sherlock said.  And then his gaze met John’s again and he smiled almost playfully, teeth gleaming as his canines elongated just a fraction, the silver eyes suddenly flashing a vivid amber-gold.

John couldn’t help his instinctive response as he jerked his arm out of Sherlock’s grasp.  “Jesus _fuck_ ,” he stammered.  

Sherlock blinked and as quickly as that his eyes and teeth were back to normal, his face now pale and watchful.

 _“Wolf,”_ John said, and then cringed at himself for stupidly stating the obvious.  

For once Sherlock failed to berate John for his dullness.  “Yes,” he simply replied.  His voice sounded deliberately neutral, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.   _“Problem?”_ he added, his tone sharper now.

“I —” John felt the tension in the air thicken at his hesitation, and he found himself shaking his head before he fully knew what his answer would be.  “No, not a problem.  Just an — adjustment.”  

Sherlock’s nostrils flared and John wondered if he was able to scent a lie.  Somewhat to John’s surprise, however, he realized that he was telling the truth.  This was still Sherlock.  John didn’t know too much about weres, but he knew enough to understand that they weren’t innately any more dangerous than anyone who was Other.  It was one of the first things John’s mother had taught him in the hushed lessons they had held behind John’s human father’s back;  Everyone, human or Other, had powers that could be used for good or ill.  

However Sherlock determined John’s sincerity, he seemed to relax.  He leaned back, arms bracing himself against the coffee table as he adjusted the length of his legs before meeting John’s eyes again.  

“So,” Sherlock said officiously, as if everything had been sorted to his satisfaction.  He gestured to John’s ankle.  “Go on then.”

John felt his shoulders hunching reflexively.  “I can’t.”  The shard of cold spreading through his chest now was not fear of discovery, but humiliation.  He could feel the pink flush spreading up his neck and face as he avoided Sherlock’s gaze.  

Sherlock snorted impatiently.  “Don’t be ridiculous, John.  Did we not just have this conversation?  Me:  Wolf.  You:  Healer.  So…”  Sherlock smirked.  “Physician, heal thyself,” he intoned.

John gritted his teeth at Sherlock’s casual mockery.   _“I can’t,”_ he repeated, biting the words out this time through his clenched jaw.  “I don’t —”  He took a deep breath, trying to sound matter-of-fact.  “I don’t have it anymore.”

“Don’t have it anymore?”  Sherlock’s voice had that lofty tone that by now John knew he adopted when he didn’t understand something.

“My magic,” John elaborated, forcing out the words.  “I — it’s just _gone_.  I don’t have it anymore, not even a spark.  Not since Afghanistan.”  His stomach roiled with both humiliation and anger.  “Why else would I…”  He gestured, quick and angry, at his ruined shoulder.  The end of both his surgical and military careers, the loss of everything that had previously given his life meaning.

“Oh.”  Sherlock’s voice was quiet now, perhaps even a little chastened.

John stared down at his knees, still unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes.  He felt absolutely wretched.  He would rest here for a moment, and then he would somehow manage to get up to his room, seeking oblivion in sleep.

“Well,” Sherlock continued, lapsing instantly back to his usual arrogant tone.  “It’s a bit trickier than a psychosomatic limp, I suppose, but I enjoy a challenge.  It shouldn’t take us too long.”

Surprise wrenched John’s eyes back up, only to find Sherlock’s gaze sparkling.  “Too long for what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “To get your magic back, of course.  What did you think?  For now, however, I’d better call Lestrade, tie up a few loose ends.  We still have the confederate in the currency exchange office to locate.  Small fish, I know, but…”

He was already pulling out his mobile, punching keys at a rapid pace as John’s mouth no doubt hung open in shock.  He snapped it shut.

“What do you mean, get my magic back?  How do you know that’s even _possible?”_ John interrupted, trying to tamp down on the little ember of hope that seemed to glow bright in his chest at the very thought of it.  

“Hmm?”  Sherlock seemed to wrench his attention away from his mobile with an effort.  “Possible?  Of course it is.  Not even improbable.  More than likely, I would say.  Let’s put the odds at forty percent within six weeks, ninety to ninety-five percent within six months.”

“You —”  Against his better judgment, John felt the ember in his chest flare into a small, flickering flame.  “You can’t know that.”

“Certainly I can.  I heal at an accelerated rate, John, it would be inconvenient if you could not keep pace with me.  Ergo, we need to restore your healing.  Quite obvious, if you ask me, but I understand that a lesser mind might have some difficulty connecting the dots…”

“Don’t take the piss,” John warned.  “Not about this.”

“Naturally not.”  Sherlock suddenly smiled, confident and so wolfish that John was amazed he hadn’t seen it before.  “Get some rest for now.  We’ll start in the morning.”

John stared at that wolfish smile and those silver, unearthly eyes.  He felt the flame in his chest building, starting to burn bright, as in that moment — for the first time since Afghanistan — John Watson began to _believe_.


	7. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cabin Pressure fandom. Martin Crieff / Douglas Richardson or Martin Crieff & Douglas Richardson. Rated G. Warning for panic attacks.
> 
> Written for the Summer Christmas challenge in the Cabin Pressure fandom. I’ve always loved the St. Petersburg episode, especially how the dicey landing goes and what a united front Martin and Douglas seem to present in facing down the evil Gordon Shappey. Consider this a “deleted scene” that explains some of the newfound camaraderie between the two of them.

“Mayday, mayday. Golf Echo Romeo Tango India, suspected bird strike. We have one engine on fire. Request immediate return and priority landing St Petersburg.”  Martin gripped the control column with white-knuckled fingers, struggling to keep GERTI’s nose up as the aeroplane shuddered and bucked.  

“Golf Tango India, roger your mayday. Continue as cleared, contact Pulkovo, approach one two four decimal two.”

“Roger.”  The tremor was falling out of Martin’s voice now.  “One two four decimal two,” he confirmed.

“Good luck.”  ATC’s words were hardly encouraging, but Martin couldn’t spare a thought for that now.

“Fire is out, Captain,” Douglas reported.  “One two four decimal two is selected.”  Martin could feel Douglas’s eyes on him.  “Martin, do you want me to land it?”

Christ, it would be so easy, to let Douglas do this.  Douglas who never messed up, Douglas who always came out on top.  Not Martin, against whom Lady Luck seemed to hold a personal grudge.  But Martin was keeping GERTI level, transferring control now would add a level of risk they could not afford.  And Martin was Captain.

“No. I’ll do it,” Martin said, his voice conveying all the steadiness and confidence he didn’t feel.  He was so braced for an argument that he hardly comprehended Douglas’s soft-spoken reply at first.

“Okay.”

___________

“Post-flight checks complete.”  Douglas’s voice was still uncharacteristically subdued.  “Carolyn and Arthur have gone along to the terminal.  Ready to brave the cold again?”

Martin could feel it coming, like the tide pulling sand slowly and inexorably from underneath his feet and it was only a matter of moments until he fell.  He cleared his throat, aiming for a steady tone of voice despite the iron band that seemed to be tightening around his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs.  “You go ahead.  I’ll — I’ll just check a few more things here.”

“You’re sure?”  He could feel Douglas’s hesitation.  

“I’m sure.”  He kept his eyes on the control panel, still feeling Douglas’s gaze on him.   _Please go_ , he thought as the cold sweat prickled up his spine, his vision starting to grey around the edges.   _Please_ _._ The only thing worse than having this happen was to have Douglas still here, _watching_ it happen.

“All right,” Douglas finally said, his voice still soft in that way that Martin had never heard before.  Martin listened to the muted swoosh of the flight deck door closing, Douglas’s footsteps as they retreated.

Martin let his breath out and cringed at the harsh, broken noise that escaped along with it.  Slowly, gingerly, he pulled his knees up to his chest and lowered his head, pressing his forehead hard into the scratchy polyester of his cheap uniform trousers, trying futilely to fend off the oncoming wave.

He could feel his pulse racing, every muscle in his body locked tight as he struggled to drag air into his lungs.  His heart thumped louder and louder, his ears starting to ring as the trembling started.  The impulse to run far, far away warred with the instinct to just curl up into a ball and quake as the panic crept steadily through his veins, making his pulse jump erratically and his head spin.

It was probably only minutes but it seemed like hours as he remained hunched over, sweating and shaking and gasping for air.  He practically screamed as through the chaos of his panic he suddenly felt a warm palm on the back of his neck.

“Martin?”

 _No.  Oh no_ _._  Martin shook his head, trying to curl up further to hide his face.  Of course Douglas would decide to come back.  Of _course_ the one person to find Martin like this is the one person he was most determined to impress, the one whose opinion meant the most to him.  Martin squeezed his eyes shut tight, pretending that Douglas wasn’t there.  He could feel the thick hot lump swelling in his throat as tears gathered, threatening to fall.

“Here now.”  Douglas’s voice was kind, soothing, as he gently placed one palm on Martin’s forehead and another on his knees, applying steady pressure until Martin was forced to uncurl his body.  “That’s better.  Look at me, Martin.”

Martin shook his head, the words he was trying to form emerging as a high, choked whine between panting breaths instead.    

“All right.”  Douglas’s voice was as warm and steady as the palm he now laid on Martin’s chest.  “Just breathe with me, then.  In through your nose, out through your mouth.  You can do this, Martin.  Ready.  In…two…three…out…two..three.  Excellent.  Again.  In…two…three…out…two…three.  In…two…three…”

Martin was _not_ doing excellently.  He was still struggling, still gasping in breath through spasming lungs, but he was a trier, he always tried so _hard_ , and so now he tried for Douglas;  forcing his mouth closed, sucking in what felt like insufficient air through his nose, and then blowing it out in unsteady huffs through his mouth.  Again, and again, and again, until finally he was able to do it in time to the steady drone of Douglas’s voice. _In…two…three…out…two…three…in…two…three…out…two…three._

Slowly, slowly, he felt the panic start to recede, his breath still unsteady but less erratic, his pulse slowing from a rapid drumbeat to a slow, steady throb.  He felt the tight band around his chest loosening, as if it were slowly being unknotted by the steady pressure of Douglas’s hand, the chocolate-rich rumble of his voice.

Martin’s head started to finally clear, and he enjoyed the blessed relief for only a moment before humiliation started to well up inside him, a hot flush creeping up his chest and neck to no doubt accentuate his already blotchy, tear-stained face.

Christ, there was no helping it.  He swallowed around the dryness in his throat and slowly, reluctantly forced his eyes open.

He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of what he saw.  Douglas was always calm and masterful in a crisis, he knew that, but now that the crisis had been averted he expected Douglas to revert to his usual sarcastic, impatient self.  He had never seen Douglas looking so… _sincere_.  His brow was wrinkled in concern, his gaze searching Martin’s face earnestly.  

“Better now?” he asked gently.

“Yes.”  Martin tried to swallow away the rasp in his voice.  “Yes.  Thank you.”

He would have thought that Douglas would move away now, but he remained where he was, kneeling next to Martin’s Captain’s chair, his hand still moving in soothing circles on Martin’s chest.  “Good,” Douglas said.  He suddenly seemed to become aware of his position and pulled his hand back.  He levered himself to his feet, knees popping, but instead of leaving he settled himself in the First Officer’s chair, both of them staring at the cold deserted airstrip through the windscreen.

Martin’s head felt heavy, exhaustion weighing him down, pinning him to his chair.  He should get up, he knew, Carolyn and Arthur were probably wondering what had happened to them both.  God, would Douglas tell them?  He clenched his fists, feeling the shame well inside him again.  What must Douglas think of him?

“It — it never happens when I’m flying,” he found himself stammering.  “I wouldn’t — I wouldn’t put anyone else at risk.  It used to happen when I was a kid, and then when I had to take the CPL, it’s why I kept failing, and when my dad died, but it’s been good — _I’ve_ been good — for a few years now, and I know when it’s coming, I could give over control if I had to —”

“It’s _fine_ , Martin.”  Douglas said firmly.  “You landed this pile of junk on one engine in subzero conditions and a vicious crosswind.   _Anyone_ would have panicked a bit after that.”

Christ, Douglas was being _understanding_ , and that seemed worse than anything.  “Not _you_ _,”_ Martin found himself saying, his voice hollow and miserable.  

“You think not?”  Douglas’s expression was unreadable, his eyes still fixed on the grey landscape.  “Maybe not exactly in the same way, but when Helena left me I stayed in bed for three days.  Didn’t bother to shower, barely fed myself.  Just huddled under the covers and waited for it all to go away.  The only reason I got myself up is because we had that flight.  You remember the one — to Seoul?”

“Really?”  The word came out too high and loud, making Martin cringe, but Douglas only shrugged.  “I didn’t know,” Martin said wonderingly.  “You seemed — just the same as always.”

“It was good,” Douglas finally said.  “To get back to work.  To GERTI, and you lot.  It made me feel like my world hadn’t just fallen apart, for the _third_ time.”  He turned toward Martin, finally meeting his eyes.  “You helped a lot, then, even if you didn’t know it.”

“Me? But you don’t even…I mean…do you even _like_ me?”  As soon as the words were out of his mouth Martin wished them back.  But Douglas didn’t seem put off at all by the pathetic neediness.

“Of course I do,” he said, his voice tinged with surprise.

“But — you’re always poking fun…” Martin stammered.

Douglas raised one eyebrow.  “In contrast to the tone of utmost respect I employ when speaking to — who?  Carolyn?  Herc?”  He looked down, his fingers tracing a tear in the upholstery on the arm of his chair.  “It’s just the way I act around people I like,” he mumbled.  “You’re the only one who takes it seriously.”

Martin had never thought of it that way.  Come to think of it, Douglas was just as challenging and sardonic with Carolyn and Herc, even Arthur.  It’s just that Carolyn and Herc gave as good as they got, and Arthur was blissfully oblivious.  Only Martin took Douglas’s ribbing to heart, letting it feed his self-doubts.  Quick on the heels of that revelation came another.

“You could have taken the landing off of me,” Martin said, thinking through it aloud.  “You didn’t even try to argue when I said I’d do it.  You even — you even called me ‘Captain’.  You _never_ call me ‘Captain’.  Not when you mean it.”

Douglas’s mouth quirked in a hint of a smile.  “You’re a good pilot, Martin, better than you think you are.  You did a bang-up job.  And…I trust you.”

Martin let that sink in, the praise setting a warm glow alight in his chest.  

“Not as good of a pilot as I am, of course,” Douglas added with a smirk, surprising a bark of laughter from Martin.

“Of course,” Martin said.  “I wouldn’t expect you to say any differently.”  

Who knows how long they would have sat there, grinning at each other like idiots, if Martin hadn’t started to shiver as the sweat cooled on his body in the increasingly frigid aeroplane.

Douglas noticed immediately, levering himself up from his chair.  “Come on, then,” he said, holding out a hand to Martin.  “We’d best get this old girl into a heated hangar, although god knows Carolyn will yowl about the cost.”

Martin accepted the outstretched palm with a smile, letting Douglas draw him to his feet.  “I could use a nice hot cup of coffee,” he agreed, following Douglas through the flight deck door.  “There has to be one even in this godforsaken place, doesn’t there?”

“Hope springs eternal,” Douglas said wryly, bundling himself into his parka as Martin did the same.  “Ready?” he asked.

“Ready.”   _Hope springs eternal_ , Martin repeated to himself as they stepped out into the biting cold, the freezing wind instantly whipping around them both as they leaned against each other, making their way toward the terminal.   _Yes, it does_ , he thought.  Himself, Douglas, even Carolyn and Arthur — none of them were perfect.  They were all a bit like GERTI.  A little flawed, a little battered about, but with a bit of luck they might keep flying.  And maybe Lady Luck didn’t have as much of a grudge against Martin as he thought.  Maybe he had been luckier than he knew all along.


	8. Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Bond / Skyfall fandom. James Bond / Q. Rated T.
> 
> Inspired by a gifset (linked at beginning of chapter).

Inspired by [this gif set](http://mynewplaidpants.tumblr.com/post/93508087842/ben-whishaw-daniel-craig-in-layer-cake-my).

_______________

“Oi!  Dicky!  That you?   _Oi!”_

Bond zeroed in automatically on the disturbance, a slender man charging towards him through the press of people.  The cheap champagne and blaring music had already started a dull pounding at the back of his head; now, as the man approached, Bond wondered if they were causing hallucinations as well.

Bond blinked stupidly for a second, trying to reconcile the face and figure of his Quartermaster with a demeanor that was so very much… _not_ _._  In the six months since Skyfall had burned Bond felt that he had gotten to know every aspect of his Quartermaster.  There was the prim and pressed young man who lectured him sternly about equipment loss over the rim of a cup of Earl Grey.  There was the rumpled and stubbled Q — jittery with caffeine and ginger biscuits, dark smudges under his drooping eyelashes — who Bond would practically have to shovel into a taxi after more than twenty-four consecutive hours at the comms during a dicey mission.  Bond’s mind seemed to stutter, however, as he tried to reconcile _this_ man — brash and sleazy and puppyish — with the ever-unflappable Quartermaster.

“Watch yourself, yeah?”  Someone bumped shoulders with the man and he shoved them seemingly automatically, the move so carelessly aggressive that for a moment Bond’s thoughts reeled with possibilities — identical twins, mimetic plastic surgery, latex masks…

Then the man was before him — an eye-searing barrage of ridiculous goatee and gelled hair and a shirt so shiny and red it thumped Bond’s headache up a notch — and in the midst of it all, grey-green eyes that flickered over Bond so warmly and keenly that Bond could no longer doubt it.  Everything else could be faked, but Bond would know those eyes anywhere.  It was a familiarity borne from the countless times Bond had limped back from a rough mission to find Q — his voice dry and sarcastic but his eyes shadowed with concern, flickering over Bond to silently assess every little cut and bruise.  

Q slid into the booth close enough to Bond that their trousers brushed.  Christ, he even _smelled_ different, like cheap cologne and even cheaper gin. 

“Dicky!” the man said with a wide grin.  “I’d a known you anywhere!  This is a turn-up, innit?”

Bond offered his hand, and Q grabbed it with a loud slap of palm, shaking it overly enthusiastically.  Bond forced his eyes away, scanning the room again as if bored.

“Christ, this music’s loud, innit?  I can barely hear myself think!” Q yelled.  He leaned in closer, close enough that Bond could feel the warm breath on his ear, as Q dropped back into his normal voice.  “Your cover is blown, comms are compromised, and we have to assume the extraction point is as well.  Revert to alternate extraction point, lose your tail and be there by oh-three hundred hours for pickup.  Copy that?”

Bond forced a smirk onto his face, as if Q had told him an amusing story.  He nodded once, eyes still scanning the room.  “Yeah, sure.”

“Cool!  Cool.”  Q leaned back in the booth, legs spread wide, and Bond suddenly placed the mannerisms.  A brash young hacker MI6 had picked up in Albania a few months ago — Q had observed the interrogations, carefully culling the useful information from every admission Bond had extracted from the man.  Bond had no idea that Q was such an incredible mimic.

They both watched the crowd silently for awhile, Bond holding the look of boredom on his face with an effort as his thoughts raced.  Christ, he had already known he was under close surveillance, and if his cover was already blown, Q was putting himself at incredible risk by making contact.  As skilled as he appeared to be, it was still a terrifying gamble, and Bond found himself furious that Q had agreed to it.

Q drained one of the champagne glasses, and then pushed himself to his feet.  “Well, I gotta motor, but it was a blast seein’ you again, Dicky.  Say hi to Bobby and Alf for me, okay?”

Bond felt his pulse beat faster, the muscles in his body locking tight with tension.  He didn’t know if he wanted to keep Q at his side, where he could protect him, or push him away quickly, out of the line of fire.  Q turned to go and Bond had grabbed his slender wrist before he even realized he was going to do it.  He felt Q’s skin, warm and damp underneath his fingertips, pulse thrumming.  

“One more thing,” Bond said, loudly over the music.  He leaned in, voice urgent even as he kept his expression carefully casual.  “What the bloody hell are you doing here, Q?  There are plenty of trained field agents to deliver a message.  Why the fuck is it _you?”_

“Yeah, right!” Q smiled widely again.  “I saw him the other day, he was just the same!”  He leaned in, clapping Bond on the shoulder with an ostentatious thump.  “Alec is in deep cover,” he murmured.  “Who else would you trust?”

He pulled away and Bond could see the facade cracking now, sweat beading at Q’s temples, his hands starting to tremble before he gathered them into fists at his side.  

“Take care of yourself, Dicky.  Yeah?” Q said, and Bond heard the thread of fear in his voice, the plea disguised in the seemingly casual goodbye.  They both knew who had Bond under surveillance, and if that organization had managed to compromise the very heart of MI6, Bond’s chances of getting to the extraction point were probably slim, creeping closer to nil with every hour that passed.

Bond smiled, wide and cocky.  “I always do.”

Q smiled back reflexively, his own rare luminous smile, and Bond felt it tug sharply at something in his chest, leaving a dull ache behind.

“Truer words were never spoken,” Q agreed loudly, sketching a salute.  “Catch you later, Dicky.”

____________________

There had barely been a moment to think in the hours since the meet.  First Bond had to lose his tail, a long process involving a vigorous footchase, a motorcycle, a speedboat, and eventually a bloody combat that had ended with Bond panting and bleeding over three corpses, his shaky fingers tamping down hard to steady the knife lodged in his ribcage.  

By the time he had made the extraction point he was dizzy and panting with blood loss, aware of nothing but a surreal pinwheel of images involving Q’s face, medics, and finally the blessed relief of the needle in his vein.  He had woken up more than twenty hours later, bullied his way out of Medical, and had finally made it home, settling in his chair with a highly medically-contraindicated tumbler of whiskey.

Only then, with nothing but time to think, did Q’s words start nudging at his memory.

_“Who else would you trust?”_

It was true.  If any other agent, even one known to Bond, had approached him and told him to cut off communication with HQ and change extraction points, Bond would have assumed that they had been compromised.  

Everyone had a pressure point — absolutely _everyone_ was vulnerable to some sort of leverage — but for some reason it had never even occurred to Bond that Q could be luring him into a trap.  How was that possible?  How, in just six months, had Q managed to slide under Bond’s guard like that?  And now that Bond had realized it, what was he going to do about it?

He could push Q away.  It would be easy enough to do.  Bond could request someone else for field support.  It’s not like he _needed_ to check in with Q after every mission, after all.   It had just become habit.  He simply found himself gravitating toward Q-Branch after every mission, his aches and jangled nerves somehow soothed by Q’s dry tone as he calmly rehashed the mission under the guise of equipment check-in.  

Habits could be broken, and Bond could cut Q out of his life with the ease of a single phone call.  He could call Q-Branch right now in fact — speak to R, and ask her to take over his mission support.  Bypassing Q like that, making the request of his subordinate — it was enough of an insult that the implication would be unmistakeable.

Bond found himself dialing as if by rote.  Although he usually communicated with Q via earpiece, he did know the extension for Q-Branch after all.  It’s not like Q-Branch began and ended with Q, even if it might seem that way sometimes lately.

“007.  Is everything okay?”  Q’s voice immediately interrupted the line, strung tight with tension.  

“Q?”  Bond felt his heart turn over, his head suddenly feeling muddled with confusion.  “Since when do they have you answering the phones?”

“I —”  Bond could hear the momentary hesitation.  “I have an automatic re-route of any calls placed to Q-Branch from your mobile.  Direct to me, on earpiece if I’m on comms, to my mobile otherwise.”  Bond could hear the self-consciousness in his voice, and suddenly he just knew that Q was blushing.  “I — I thought perhaps if there was an emergency…it’s a more efficient system…”  His voice trailed off uncertainly.

“So you have an automatic re-route for all the field agents?  Or just all the double-ohs?”  Bond couldn’t help himself from prodding the already-flustered Q.

“Well.  Er.  I mean, it was kind of a pilot program, one might say.  I certainly _might_ roll it out to some of the other agents.  I mean.  Er.  Eventually.”  Q cleared his throat.  “Was there something you needed, Bond?”

Bond leaned his head back, suddenly giddy.  It might be the pain meds, or it might be the whiskey, but somehow he thought that it was mostly just Q.  “Yes,” Bond said, finding that his mind was already made up, and probably had been for awhile.  “Dinner?”

  



	9. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BBC Sherlock fandom. John Watson / Sherlock Holmes. Rated T.
> 
> Inspired by the following AU prompt: "tried to get the candy bar that didn’t drop out of the vending machine and now my hand is stuck can u help me out" au

"Problem?"  The voice was a pleasant tenor, dryly amused.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, resting his head momentarily against the front of the vending machine.

"Not. At. _All_ _,”_ he growled, emphasising each word with a sharp tug downwards of his forearm, trying unsuccessfully to extract his right hand from the vending machine’s mechanism.  ”Please carry on about your business.  I’m _fine.”_

He pulled down with even greater force, rocking the machine forward, but his hand remained stubbornly stuck.

"Hang on, now.  You’ll sprain something."  The voice had gentled, concerned now.  Sherlock stubbornly refused to look around, and so he was startled when a soft warmth settled behind him.

"What —" Sherlock stuttered out as the man straddled Sherlock’s calves without compunction, fitting his body neatly against Sherlock’s back from hips to shoulders so that he could reach both arms around him.

"Trust me," the man said, his voice a soft rasp right behind Sherlock’s ear, ruffling the curls there.  "I’m practically an expert by now."  A hand was lifted into Sherlock’s view, compact and neat and competent with an intriguing hint of a gun callus, fingers wiggling slightly in emphasis.  "Plus, small hands," the man added wryly.

"A surgeon’s hands," Sherlock said without thinking, automatically cataloging the callus, the neatly scrubbed fingernails, the fading tan line.  "But not just a surgeon — an army doctor."

The man’s slow, sure movements stopped for just a moment — the slightest hitch before he was reaching forward again, leaning the firm weight of his body into Sherlock’s as his right hand lifted the vending machine’s flap.  ”Used to be,” he said, his voice carefully scrubbed of emotion even as his left hand trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Afghanistan or…uh —"

Sherlock’s voice suddenly gave out on him as the fingers of the man’s left hand slid up the tendons of Sherlock’s right arm, firm and sure.  The action was competent, impersonal, and Sherlock was almost certain it shouldn’t make him shiver like this.  It must just be the late hour — too much caffeine and too little sleep, and the fading adrenaline from the case.  Certainly not the fact that this man was touching him so gently and firmly, body pressed close against Sherlock’s, his breath a gentle huff against the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

"Easy now," the man coaxed, his grip tight on Sherlock’s wrist as he rotated it gently.  Sherlock flailed a little with his left hand, trying to keep it out of the way, and somehow managed to settle it on the man’s thigh, firm and warm under thin cotton scrubs.  

"It’s no wonder — just look at the size of your hands," the man marveled almost absently.  “Just a bit more…"

Sherlock hissed in pain as his wrist was overextended uncomfortably, and then suddenly his hand slithered free, the vending machine flap clanging shut as the man pulled both of their arms clear.

"There we go," the man said, a warm curl of satisfaction and reassurance in his voice.  Sherlock was practically sitting in the man’s lap now, and the man’s arms were still solidly around him, his right hand bracing Sherlock’s forearm while the fingers of his left hand tapped and nudged over the tendons of Sherlock’s wrist in tender exploration.

"A bit sprained," the man decided, his chin now notched into the curve of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder.  "Come with me and I’ll wrap it for you."

Suddenly the warmth was gone and Sherlock felt strangely cold, even in his suit jacket.  He clambered around on his knees, watching the man lever himself upwards somewhat awkwardly, weight heavier on his left leg than his right, just as Sherlock had suspected from the tilt of his hips.  Hips that were now at eye-level, narrow and lean in the drawstring-waisted scrubs.  Hips that had nestled firmly against Sherlock’s arse as the man had spooned up against Sherlock’s body as if he belonged there…

“All right there?”  Sherlock realized he had been staring at the man’s groin for quite a long time now, and jerked his head up.  The man’s eyes were crinkled with amusement, blue so deep it almost appeared brown.  Eyebrows raised toward a blond-grey hairline briefly before the man was reaching down, helping Sherlock to his feet.  

“You’re a tall one, aren’t you?” the man said, brushing dust off Sherlock’s jacket with swift, efficient movements of his hands — and was this _flirting?_  Sherlock wasn’t very good at detecting flirting when it was directed towards himself, but surely there was no need for the man to stand quite so close, and to put his hands on Sherlock quite so often?

“There we are,” the man said, with a brief nod to himself as if confirming a job well done.  “Follow me and we’ll get you the rest of the way sorted.”

“I — uh — Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock found himself blurting out.

“Hmmm?”  The eyebrows raised again.  “That’s right, you started to ask that before.  Um, Afghanistan.  But how did you know?”

“Simple, really.  You’re obviously familiar with this hospital, but not so wrapped up in your own grief as to be unwilling to offer assistance to a stranger, so you are staff here rather than a friend or relation of a chronically ill patient — no, you have the authority and mannerisms of a doctor, and the scrubbing of your hands, together with their natural form and economy, indicate surgeon.  The fading tan line at your wrist speaks to prolonged sun exposure, but nothing above the wrist, so not from holiday.”  Oh god, what was he saying?  The flood of words was a nervous reaction, instinctive showing off that was guaranteed to alienate the man instantly, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.  “The tilt of your hips as you sat behind me indicated that you favor your right leg, and therefore you’ve sustained an injury.  Combine that with a slight gun callus and arrive at not just doctor but Army doctor, recently invalided home from a warm climate with active combat.  Therefore, Afghanistan or Iraq. Obvious.”

“That’s —”  

Sherlock turned his attention to straightening the cuffs of his jacket, looking away so that he didn’t have to watch the man’s kind face twist with antagonism.

“— brilliant.”  The man finished.

“Pardon?”  Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to the man’s face.  Instead of the disgust he expected to find there the man was grinning, open and easy.  

“Absolutely amazing.  Extraordinary.”

“I — that’s not what people usually say.”

The man’s smile widened.  “What do they usually say?”

“‘Piss off,’” Sherlock admitted.

The man giggled — _giggled_ — and Sherlock found himself laughing too.

“John Watson,” the man said, extending his right hand automatically before pulling it back almost as quickly.  “Wait, no shaking hands for you until we get that wrist wrapped.”  He cast a glance sideways at the vending machine, where a packet of Jammie Dodgers still dangled mournfully.  “And those biscuits have been there for at least two weeks now, you’re better off without them.  Let me take you to the cafeteria instead.  Get something solid in you while I wrap that wrist up.”

“That sounds…good,” Sherlock managed, feeling a bit like he’d been caught up in a whirlwind by this small, fascinating, and entirely _unexpected_ man.  

The man — _John_ — beamed.  “Right.  Off we go then.”  He immediately set off, a quick stride with an only slightly noticeable limp, and Sherlock couldn’t help but fall into step beside him.  His left hand patted his pocket, absently checking on the evidence he had brought to give to Lestrade as soon as the detective inspector had been cleared from his concussion.  Oh well.  That could wait.  Sherlock was on the scent of something even more intriguing now.


	10. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen Wolf fandom. Stiles Stilinski / Derek Hale. Rated T. Based on a Tumblr prompt.

Prompt found [here](http://drgrlfriend.tumblr.com/post/116851309752/awful-au-190) if you want spoilers.

* * *

 

Stiles sat down on the curb, bloodied nose pinched between his fingers.  At least it helped him avoid eye contact with the other guy, who had for some reason settled down on the curb next to him.    
  
_He was probably just waiting for an opportunity to gloat_ , Stiles thought bitterly.  After all, his annoyingly fucking perfect stubbled jaw was not even bruised from the punch Stiles had thrown, whereas Stiles was a bleeding mess.    
  
Christ, his nose just had to stop the torrent so that he could get in his car and flee the scene of this godforsaken debacle.  Stiles tentatively released the bridge of his nose, and the flow of blood immediately started up again.  
  
“Just keep your head back, and keep the pressure on it,” the guy next to him said, voice surprisingly mild in comparison to the heated tone he had adopted in the bookstore.  "Here.“  
  
Stiles blinked as a surprisingly gentle hand tilted his chin up, soft fabric wiping the blood from his mouth and chin.    
  
"Your sweater,” Stiles mumbled nonsensically, watching out of the corner of his eye as the soft blue-green cashmere became streaked with red.  
  
“What?”  
  
“It was…pretty.”  And sure, maybe the guy had been an absolute ass about first laying hands on the first edition signed hardcover that Stiles had driven _three hours_ to buy, but it doesn’t mean Stiles hadn’t noticed that he was basically the hottest guy alive, and how that sweater had brought out every iridescent tone in his rainbow eyes.  
  
“It’s just a sweater,” the guy said, sighing.  "Listen, I’m sorry things got out of hand in there.  I’ll drive you to the hospital if you want.  And if you want to file a police report –“  
  
Christ, just when Stiles thought he couldn’t feel any worse.  "I punched you _first_ ,” he pointed out bitterly.  "And don’t worry, it’s not broken.  I’m enough of a klutz that I’m well familiar with how that feels.“  He huffed out a defeated breath.  "I’m sorry too.  I can’t believe I got us banned from an _antique book store_.  Even for me, that’s an epic screw-up.”  
  
The guy snorted softly, and when Stiles shot him a cautious glance the corner of his mouth was tipped up in a smirk.  "You _really_ wanted that book, huh?“  
  
"Yeah.”  Stiles closed his eyes, hating the shakiness of his voice.  "I – it sounds so stupid, but I wanted to impress a guy.  I mean, I’m sure looking like you do you’ve never had to work for it in your life, but some of us aren’t blessed with…all of that.“  Stiles said, gesturing blindly in the guy’s direction.  "I met this guy online, and part of the reason we hit it off is because that stupid obscure little book is our favorite.  We’re going to meet in person for the first time next week, and it would have been the perfect present.  I mean, I just wanted him to like me as much as I like him, and I never thought anyone else in the whole state of California would be interested in it, let alone grabbing it just a few minutes before I got here –”  
  
Fuck, he was babbling.  Just his typical dorkiness, he knew, but maybe he could blame it on a concussion.  He opened his eyes.  The guy was staring at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.  
  
“I – what?” Stiles said, growing defensive under the guy's disbelieving gaze.  
  
“Are you… _Stiles?_ ” the guy asked.  
  
Stiles stared.  He hadn’t mentioned his name, he was sure.  The only way this guy could possibly know it was if…  
  
_“Derek?!”_

The guy – _Derek_ – smiled, wide and bright and beautiful.  He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck sheepishly.  “I wanted to give _you_ the book when we met next week.”  He laughed softly.  “This wasn’t quite the first impression I had in mind.”

Stiles felt an answering smile break over his face.  It made his nose ache like a bitch, but what the hell.  “It’s the thought that counts?”

Derek leaned back, those beautiful eyes dropping briefly to Stiles’ mouth and then back up to his eyes.  “I…have a few more thoughts.  If you’d like to hear them.  Over dinner, maybe?”

Stiles jumped to his feet, his aching nose forgotten, not even caring that the hand he reached down to Derek was still streaked with blood.  “ _Hell_ yeah.”


	11. First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For eeyore9990, who asked for first kisses. :-) Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale, rated E. Mutual pining, angst, (unintended) humiliation, happy ending.

The way it starts is nothing like Stiles had ever expected.  

The rest of the pack had cleared out after the meeting, Stiles lingering behind to try to cajole a few more relevant scraps of werewolf lore from Derek.  Derek bends over low to put a serving bowl on the bottom rack of the dishwasher, and — well, Stiles is still a teenage boy, for chrissakes.  He averts his gaze, hoping the smell of his arousal isn’t _too_ overpowering, but it’s not like this hasn’t happened a hundred times in his pathetic, long-term crush on Derek.  But this time…

This time, Derek straightens up, pulling off the lavender dishwashing gloves that Stiles had mocked mightily.  

“Want me to take care of that?” he asks casually, and before Stiles can really process what he means Derek is dropping gracefully to his knees, his fingers working the button of Stiles’ pants.  

“What — oh _god_ ,” Stiles mumbles as Derek leans in.  And then there is nothing else Stiles can say, except _fuck_ and _Derek_ and _like that, more._

He’s still come-drunk and stupid, mumbling out a blurry “Thanks?” as Derek pulls his pants up for him, buttoning him back up before giving him a playful slap on the ass.  

“I don’t mind,” Derek says.  “See you later.”

And just like that he’s gone, into the upper reaches of the restored Hale house, as a slow, humiliated blush spreads up Stiles’ neck.

* * *

 _It will never happen again_ , Stiles vows.  Which doesn’t explain how he finds himself, pants around his thighs again, shoving desperately into Derek’s grip as his stupid little-boy twin bed rattles beneath them.  

Derek gets them both in his large hands, stroking them off expertly.  He doesn’t make a sound, only the harsh panting of his breath, and Stiles’ involuntary whines seem all the more pathetic in comparison.

Stiles spills first, because of course he does, and he can’t even take comfort in the fact that Derek comes right afterwards.  He’s still dazed and stupid from watching Derek lick come from his hand, and so Derek is dressed and out the window before he gets a chance to say another word.  

“Just email me what you find,” Derek says nonchalantly, already sliding the window closed behind him.

Stiles turns his face into the pillow and screams.

* * *

Stiles just has to be straight with Derek.  He has to tell him that this — this fuckbuddy-whatever-it-is- _bullshit_ — is off.  He works up his courage and heads over to the Hale house, full of righteous fury.

Which means he has almost no idea how he’s ended up here, in Derek’s bed, with three of Derek’s long, blunt fingers slowly working him open.  Except to say that Derek had been working out, and shirtless, when Stiles arrived, and well — maybe the explanation isn’t so mysterious after all.

It seemed reasonable at the time, but now Stiles feels too vulnerable, too exposed, sure that every stupid feeling he has for Derek is written all over his face.  So he turns over, offering himself on hands and knees.  

“I heard it’s easier this way,” he says, biting his lip as Derek runs a soothing hand down his back, hiding his face in the pillow as Derek fucks him open so carefully and tenderly that Stiles feels like he might start crying if he weren’t about to come his brains out.

This time it’s Stiles who jumps up as soon as he feels like his legs might hold him, pulling on his jeans, ignoring the come and lube dripping out of his ass, shoving sockless feet into his sneakers in his desperation to get away.

But he’s forgotten how fast Derek is, when he wants to be, and he’s blocking the door, concern written all over his stupid handsome face.

“Stiles?” he asks, and Stiles feels the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes again.

“Yeah.  So,” he starts, looking anywhere but at Derek.  “I kinda — came over to tell you that…this isn’t working out for me.  I mean, I’m…I’m just gonna stop this.”

He darts a glance at Derek and sees his lips start to form a question before he seems to stop himself, his expression growing shuttered.  “Is this…did I hurt you?” he finally gets out.

“Nah.  This — this was fine,” Stiles mumbles.  

 _“Fine.”_  Derek repeats, his voice flat.  And then he just…waits.  For Stiles to no doubt put his foot further in his mouth.

“I just — I didn’t really want this,” Stiles fumbles out, and god, they’re only on the second floor, how bad would it be to just jump out the window already?  

“You — “  Derek’s voice has an edge of anger now.  “You _always_ want it.  I can smell it all over you, all the time.  You drive me _crazy_ with it.”

 _“Fuck you!”_  Stiles can do angry too.  Fuck, he’s got a goddamn _wellspring_ of anger just waiting to be tapped into.  “Don’t you _dare_ throw that in my face.  I never bothered you with it, I was never going to do anything about it —”

“So you’re saying I _pushed_ you into this?”  Derek’s practically growling the words, his eyes flickering an unsteady gas-light blue.

“That’s not what I’m _saying_ , asshole!  I’m just saying —”

“That you didn’t want any of this.  Like I can’t hear your heartbeat speed up, like I can’t smell your cock fucking _leaking_ in your jeans when you’re around me —”

It’s washing over Stiles like a wave, now, fury and shame and sick humiliation so strong that he’s shaking with it, his face burning, his mouth dry.  He doesn’t know what he’s saying until the words are coming out of his mouth, too late to stop them.

“You want to know if you’re hurting me?  Yeah, you’re hurting me.   _You’re breaking my fucking heart.”_

Silence drops, sudden and smothering.  The anger has drained from Derek’s face and he just looks shocked, but Stiles can barely process it, too mired in his own wretched mortification, horrified by what just came out of his stupid mouth.  He thinks he might throw up for a minute but he swallows thickly, pushing past Derek, who makes no move to stop him as he yanks the bedroom door open and hurries through, clattering down the steps.

And fuck Derek for a goddamn _cheater_ because he’s bypassing the steps entirely, leaping from the landing to the floor below, placing himself solidly in front of the front door and — _really?_  They’re back here _again?_

“Just let me go,” Stiles grinds out miserably.

“Your heart?” Derek is asking, his face still blank with shock.  “ _Your_ heart?”

“Listen, I’m not — I just want to go.  Find yourself another fuckbuddy, okay?  I’m sure you’ll have plenty of takers.  I just — I can’t do this and pretend that it doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“I thought —”  Stiles can’t make sense of Derek’s expression, his eyes are wide and strangely intent.  “I thought — you’re leaving for college in a few months.”

“What?”  Stiles rubs his hand through his hair in frustration.  “You know what?  Never mind, I don’t even care.  Whatever you’re on about, just…save it for later, okay?”  He takes another step toward the door and Derek’s palm is flat on his chest.

 _“Stiles.”_  

Stiles can’t help but look up and Derek’s expression is…pleading.  “I thought this was all you wanted.  That — that you were going to go to college and meet new people, _normal_ people, and —”  Derek’s chest is heaving, as if it’s the equivalent of running a marathon just saying this many words in a row.   _“I thought this was what you wanted,”_ he says again, gaze boring into Stiles’ as if _willing_ him to understand.

The bloom of hope in his chest makes Stiles feel like a fool, and so he musters up his best narrow-eyed stare of suspicion.  “Are you saying it’s not what _you_ want?   _Bullshit_.  You practically push me out the door every time, when you’re not somersaulting out my window at record speed.”

“It’s —”  Derek shakes his head in frustration, but the hand on Stiles chest is petting him now, soothingly, sneaking down to curl around his ribs, drawing him closer.  “I was worried if I stuck around that — that I’d say something stupid, or do something to make you realize, and you’d be creeped out, and — you’re going soon, and I don’t know if you’ll ever come back, and —”  Derek’s eyes are wild now, his voice sincere, and — Stiles knows, deep down, that he’s just not this good of a liar.  “I just wanted to take whatever I could get,” he finishes, his voice low and rough in Stiles’ ear, and that — that’s just _unfair_.

“You haven’t even _kissed_ me,” Stiles complains and he can’t even finish the sentence before Derek’s lips are on his, soft and gentle at first, sweetly coaxing.  And, fuck, but Stiles can’t even _pretend_ to resist this anymore, and he opens his mouth first, deepening the kiss, tasting Derek for the first time, wet and hot and hungry.

Derek sighs into the kiss, a bone-deep shudder of relief, and Stiles smiles.


	12. Flicker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen Wolf, Stiles Stilinski & Derek Hale, Rated G, Not!Fic

This idea has been stuck in my mind but I don’t think I have time to write it, so I’m throwing it out here as a not!fic.

Just imagine, for some reason, that Derek is all wolfed out in the aftermath of a fight, trading barbs back and forth with Stiles, and Stiles almost misses it – thinks it’s just a trick of the light.  Stiles loses his train of thought for a moment until Derek furrows his brow in confusion, eyes burning bright blue again, and then Stiles snaps back to attention and carries on as if nothing happened.  

But Stiles is Stiles, and he loves a puzzle, and his mind keeps turning it over and over, what they had been talking about when it happened, and when the realization hits him it’s enough to make him bolt straight upright in his bed, plans and schemes already spinning in his head.

Subtlety is not Stiles’ forte but he tries.  Just a comment here and there so that Derek doesn’t get his back up.  Trying to just throw it out there, trying not to stare too intently at Derek’s eyes, watching for it.  But it’s there, every time.

“It wasn’t your fault.”  (Flicker)

“You didn’t deserve that.” (Flicker)

“You were doing your best in a crap situation.”  (Flicker)

“Nobody blames you for what happened.” (Flicker)

And sometimes Derek does get angry and defensive, and other times he just ignores Stiles as if he’s just humoring him, but eventually, every once in awhile, there’s a little nod, as if Derek is registering the truth in Stiles’ unwavering tone and steady heartbeat.  Until over months and months and maybe even years and years, the flicker gets longer and longer until one day Stiles can smile up into Derek’s beautiful golden eyes. 


	13. Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Bond fandom, rated G. No pairings (yet).
> 
> This was the start of a Bondlock Pacific Rim AU that was rattling around in my head. May still finish it up at some future time, but wanted to post the beginning before I lost it. The idea was to have Bond and Watson as ex-SAS buddies piloting a Jaeger, and then Q and Sherlock (siblings) show up with a Jaeger of their own, reluctantly transferred from where they were working relatively independently to a Shatterdome headed by Mycroft.

It wasn’t unusual to see the occasional person running through the halls of MI6 headquarters.  Bond hardly noticed the first man sprinting by, and merely raised an eyebrow at the second.  It was only when Eve Moneypenny raced past him, as swift in stiletto heels as most would be in trainers, that Bond realized something truly unusual was going on.  

He followed in the wake of the human flurry, finding himself in Q Branch.  Intelligence staff were scurrying back and forth, but Bond dodged past them easily to make his way toward the monitors at the front of the room.  Q-Branch personnel were typing frantically, the monitors flashing satellite image after satellite image.  

Bond sidled up to Tanner.  “What is it?” he asked.

“That’s what we want to know.  Some kind of attack in the United States.  California,” Tanner answered curtly.

“Nuclear?  Chemical?”

Tanner grimaced.  “Initial reports indicated an earthquake, but the intel coming in now is...confusing.”

“The ground-zero event appears to have been in San Francisco, sir,” one of the Q Branch techs reported.  “Satellite images coming online now.”

The largest monitor glitched for a minute, and then focused in on a swath of destruction.  The familiar landmark of the Golden Gate bridge hung in tatters, cars scattered like confetti.  It took a moment for Bond to realize that the small shapes dotting the wreckage and surrounding water were actually human casualities — some scrambling to escape, but most of them sprawled in the unnatural stillness of death.

“What the bloody hell —” Tanner muttered, as the tech zoomed in and then panned, following the trail of devastation.  

“Holy Christ,” the tech breathed as the image revealed what could only be described as a monster, its massive form only partly obscured by smoke and the detritus of the buildings it appeared to have flattened in its wake. 

“Reports confirm that the threat is biological,” another tech relayed, her fingers tapping frantically across the screen of her tablet.  “Approximately 900 metres in size.  F-22 fighters have been scrambled from Edwards AFB, but conventional weapons have so far proven to be...ineffective.”

The techs continued to report, Tanner’s crisp voice interjecting at intervals, but it faded to background noise in Bond’s head.  He was riveted, able to focus on nothing but the image on the screen.  

The organism knocked aside an armored assault vehicle as if it were a toy.  An RPG exploded against the thick, scaly skin and the monster shrugged it off as if it were a bothersome gnat.  It was a creature from mankind’s deepest nightmares, humping and flailing its way along the familiar coastline, destroying everything in its path.  

Inconceivable.  

Unprecedented.  

Unstoppable.


	14. Entrapment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Notfic prompted by the following Tumblr thread:
> 
> fasterfood: what happens if an undercover cop posing as a drug dealer deals to an undercover cop posing as a drug buyer
> 
> thelongdarktea-timeofthesoul: I read about where something similar to this happened except they were investigating prostitution and they arrested each other and like a year later ended up getting married. 
> 
> marguerite26: I need for there to be a sterek fic of this. It would be beautiful.
> 
> Pairing: Derek/Stiles, rated T, adult themes, officer!Stiles, deputy!Derek, undercover au, sex worker impersonation

But, you see, neither of them could make the offer outright, because that would be entrapment.  So, imagine, Derek rolls up in the Camaro (the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department’s official “honeypot” vehicle), pulling up to where Stiles (Beacon City PD’s newest recruit) is lounging against a brick wall in booty shorts, looking like the illustration you’d find if you looked up “jailbait” in the dictionary.

Derek rolls down his tinted window and grins that sharpish grin of his.  “You look cold,” he says.

“I could use some warming up,” Stiles says, his answering grin equally wicked.

“I could give you a ride somewhere,” Derek tries.

“I can already tell you’d give me a  _very_  nice ride,” Stiles answers, trailing his index finger up the hood of the Camaro.

And on, and on, both of them bantering, neither of them able to actually proposition the other or they’d blow the whole operation.  Until eventually before they even realize it, they’re just talking, and Stiles has progressed from leaning in the window provocatively to draping himself seductively over the passenger seat to sprawling in the passenger seat, his feet up on the dash, gesturing animatedly as he explains the history of circumcision to a bemused but reluctantly enthralled Derek.

Derek listens so attentively that Stiles feels almost bad that he’s going to have to bust this john, and Derek feels almost bad he’s going to have to bust this sex worker, but maybe he can just keep him in holding long enough to give him a hot meal and put a scare into him, because damn the kid seems too smart to be taking these kind of risks…

And in the meantime, Derek’s partner Reyes is in the surveillance van, peering at the grainy footage from the Camaro’s dashcam, wondering, “Isn’t that that kid I knew in high school – Stilinski!?!” and making a few calls.

And eventually McCall and Reyes break the news to their respective partners that they are, in fact, trying to bust another member of law enforcement.  And Stiles and Derek give up the night for lost and go out for a late-night meal at the diner, arguing the whole way about whether the city/county line is the  _whole_ street or only the _north_ side of the street, as Derek claims.


	15. Bonded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick little Sterek ficlet inspired by the truly priceless photo below. 
> 
> Stiles/Derek, emissary!Stiles, alpha!Derek, alive Hale family, alpha / emissary bonding
> 
> Rated G

“No, seriously, try to look a little  _more_  murderous,” the punk kid whispered, shooting Derek a sidelong glance.  “Really try to  _sell_  the idea that you’re thinking about ripping my throat out with your teeth.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Derek growled as the iPhone clicked away.  At his mother’s instruction, he placed a reluctant hand on the spark’s shoulder but defiantly kept it balled up in a fist.  “I’d use my claws, so I don’t have to taste you.”

“Fuck you, I would be  _delicious!”_  the kid blurted out, affronted, his scent turning sharp and gingery.

“Stiles,” the Sheriff warned, and Stiles huffed out an aggrieved sigh, turning to face the camera once again and pasting a fake smile across his mobile face.

“It’s not like I’m enjoying this either,” Stiles muttered after a long moment, apparently unable to hold a silence for longer.  “I haven’t even finished high school yet, it’s not like I was  _angling_  to get myself bonded to some… _accidental_ _alpha_.”

“ _True_  alpha,” Derek growled, his eyes flaring red as if to confirm the words.  “And it’s not like I planned  _that_  either!”

“Derek, darling…lens flare!” Talia chirped cheerily, and Derek retracted his fangs and ground his teeth together as he faced forward again, his eyes fading back to their usual color.  “Stiles, dear, can you lean in just a little?  Perfect!”

The boy’s eyes were on Derek now, the unusual amber color of them seeming to look right into the core of Derek, making him want to squirm under that preternatural scrutiny.  Suddenly, a golden sunburst radiated outward from the spark’s pupils, so bright and beautiful that Derek was dazzled, and then the boy was blinking, long lashes sweeping down over his eyes.  

When Stiles looked away his eyes were back to that amber color, but Derek found himself still a little breathless.  

“Yeah, I guess you didn’t,” Stiles said after a few more moments, a curl of warmth in his voice easing some of the tension Derek didn’t realize he had been carrying.

Derek had the strange, unsettling feeling that the spark had seen every thread of his tumultuous thoughts and emotions, and instead of turning away from the tangled mess of guilt and shame and hope and fear Stiles had…accepted him.

Unbidden, Stiles reached for Derek’s hand on his shoulder, and pulled it down, entwining it securely in his own.  A pulse of warmth and affection seemed to pass from palm to palm, making Derek instinctively squeeze tighter around the long-fingered hand in his grip.

Derek ignored the “Awwws” that resonated from the family members gathered around.  He found himself tugging Stiles a bit, just enough for them to be face to face.  Derek wasn’t sure what his face was doing right now, but he was pretty sure his expression wasn’t murderous anymore.  

“I guess we’ll figure it out together, huh?” Derek said, his thumb absently brushing a half-circle across Stiles’ index finger.

“Yeah.”  Stiles sounded a little breathless himself.  “I guess we will.”


End file.
